


Otis Spunkmeyer, My Ass

by nwhepcat



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, Gift Fic, holiday fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-20
Updated: 2010-02-20
Packaged: 2017-10-07 09:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/63891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwhepcat/pseuds/nwhepcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean does his Christmas shopping for Sam via B&E. Hey, it's a tradition. He comes up with the gift ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Otis Spunkmeyer, My Ass

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Erinrua](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Erinrua).



Sam wakes to the throaty rumble of the Impala outside their motel room. Rolling over, he squints at the LED clock display. 2:45 a.m. Where the hell has Dean been?

His brother tiptoes into the room as if he isn't riding on the wake of a 100-decibel blast of noise.

"_Be vewwy, vewwy qui-et_," Sam says to the ceiling.

"All right, Elmer." Flicking on the lights, Dean tosses something at Sam while he's still blinded by the glare. "Merry Christmas." He crosses to the kitchenette while Sam gropes for the missile that just landed on his bed.

"What is this?"

"Cookies. Home-baked."

Sam hears the sound of liquid being poured into a glass, then its repetition, then the dull thunk of a plastic jug being set down.

"What, Otis Spunkmeyer?"

"Otis Spunkmeyer my ass," Dean says, then puts on his TV commercial voice. "Same great chemical taste as your favorite brand of grocery store cookies, only warm." He hands Sam an empty plate and a glass of milk. "These, my man, are the real deal."

As he grabs the big Ziploc bag Dean tossed on the bed, he sees that's true. There's somewhere between two and three dozen cookies of various kinds. He opens the bag and pulls out a chocolate chip, not even bothering with the plate. "Fuck, Dean." He closes his eyes, just letting the flavors mingle on his tongue. Dean's right -- nothing else tastes like an actual home-baked cookie. "Where the hell did you get these?"

Sitting on the foot of Sam's bed, Dean reaches for the bag. "The Andersons', the Smiths', the Dornans'. I hit the Lippmanns' by accident, but there was rugelach in the kitchen, so I snagged some of that."

Still sleep-fogged, Sam needs a moment to process this, then says, "Jesus, Sam, you broke into people's houses and stole _cookies_?"

"I shared the magic of Christmas with cynical adults. They put out cookies for Santa, and when they get up to sneak them off the plate, they'll be gone." Reaching into his jacket pocket, he pulls out a carrot and wings it into the waste basket. "For Rudolph."

"You stole Santa's cookies."

"Well, I was gonna steal presents, but I remembered that time I got you a Barbie by accident. Then I saw the cookies and realized that was a better present anyhow." Dean follows the last bite of a snickerdoodle with a long drink of milk. "Whole milk," he says. "None of that skim shit."

"Where'd you steal that from?"

"I stopped at a gas station. What, you need to see the receipt?"

Sam reaches back into the bag, comes up with a sugar cookie with a little cutout in the middle, filled with candy that looks like a stained glass star. "Man, these are orgasmically good," he says. "Thanks for thinking of it."

"I don't think I've had home-baked cookies since I was with Cassie," Dean says. "She couldn't believe how insane I went over them."

"Yeah," Sam says. "It's been a long time for me, too."

Dean pulls another cookie from the bag. "Shit. This one's burnt on the bottom." He cocks his hand to send it flying after the carrot.

"Don't!" Plucking it from Dean's hand, he puts it on the plate and pushes back the covers.

"Who would give Santa the black-bottomed cookies?" He reaches toward Sam to snatch the cookie back, but Sam evades and heads for the kitchenette.

"Pick out the burnt ones and put 'em on your plate. I can rescue them, I think." Sam rummages through the drawer of dented kitchen tools that makes this the most well-stocked kitchenette of their many-moteled past. Victorious, he comes up with a grater speckled with rust-spots. Bending over the wastebasket, he gently grates the black off the bottom of the cookie. He hands it to Dean. "Here, good as new."

Dubious, Dean tries a bite. "Neat trick. Where'd you learn that?"

"Jess." He smiles. "She never made a batch of cookies that she didn't burn at least one pan full." Suddenly his throat aches, and he busies himself rescuing the other two burnt cookies Dean has put aside.

Dean falls silent, clearly adrift for the right thing to say. Sam curses himself for wrecking such a great Christmas gift.

"Here's to Jess," Dean says, and as Sam looks up in surprise, Dean raises his glass of milk. "Rescuer of cookies, sweetheart of my little brother. I wish I'd known her longer than a few minutes."

Strangely enough, this is just the right thing to say. Sam takes up his glass, leaving clingy, buttery specks of black cookie dust showing stark against the white. "To Jess. I wish you'd known her too."

"Merry Christmas, bro."

"Merry Christmas. And thanks for the best gift ever."

"Even better than Winter Princess Barbie?"

Sam laughs. "Even better."

Then Dean rises and refills their milk glasses and they turn on Adult Swim, gorging on cookies and milk, watching cartoons until dawn as if they were eight and twelve again.


End file.
